About Me

Tuesday, 6 October 2015

Well after a break from my usual writing
escapades, and redoing my website, I thought I would share some of my filming I
took at a French festival in Normandy this summer.

As you can see in the video, during the
procession, the participants are all dressed in their finest medieval regalia. They seem to be celebrating the culture and heritage of their town with great
enthusiasm.

I also took some photographs, with the one above being my
favourite. I thought the picture of the girl on the beautifully decorated
horse had a canny resemblance to a ‘Joan Of Arc’ type figure.

Furthermore on the subject of Joan of Arc - in the
local church, there is a monument to her, because in France she is venerated as
a saint.

Monday, 22 June 2015

Well the other day I went up to the Freud Museum, in London. It was the last place of residence of the father of psychoanalysis, Dr. Sigmund Freud, up until his death in 1939 - and of his daughter, Anna Freud, who lived there up until her own death in 1982. She stipulated that the house should become a Museum, and in 1986 this came to fruition.

I found the Museum in a quaint part of Camden, London, in Maresfield Gardens.

When I entered the fascinating place it was a real eye opener to see Sigmund Freud’s many artefacts, books, furniture and most importantly of all his Psychoanalysis’ couch, where many a human subject sought treatment from their symptoms of mental distress.

I took a few photos; and it was interesting reading through some of the books and text Sigmund Freud wrote while he was alive. His title as the ‘The Father Of Psychoanalysis’ is fully justified, as many of his teachings are in tune with the present day, just as when they were first written in the early and middle part of the twentieth century.

Thursday, 16 April 2015

I was doing some research the other day to see what may of happened to some of the French Indochinese refugees - who had worked for France's colonial administration.
Obviously because of this action they would of been forced to flee Vietnam - when France's colonial rule ended in 1954.

I noted this interesting BBC article, which gave a somewhat sad story on how, and where, some of these unfortunate people ended up. Not much of a life in the end! But I suppose if they had been left in Vietnam they would of been sent to re-education camps - or worse been killed.

Friday, 10 April 2015

Went to an auction the other day...hoping to get this lovely
“Edison Wax Cylinder Player”. Sadly I was outbid. Pity really, as I’d saved up
for months. Oh well hope the person who bought it over the Internet from
Austria makes the most of it.

Sunday, 11 January 2015

The month was October. I exited
from the bustling Spanish airport, brow awash with sweat.

A slap of hands and a native taxi driver took my fare. The
taxis’ backseat felt like fire on my reddening legs. Then in broken English the
driver joked about ‘David Beckham’ at Real Madrid.

I checked into
my hotel and slept briefly in my room. Suddenly dancing reflections from the
windows awoke me. I felt excited, filled with happiness.

I was in Benidorm. The ‘Costa Hotspot’ for all things British,
tinged with a bit of Spanish. .

In a daze of minutes I stood on the spotless promenade; eyes
distending as I put on my designer sunglasses. Next a soft wind from North
Africa touched my neck in a flurry of dusty kisses - I smiled and tentatively
sat on the warm sand - gazing upon the blue sea. Overhead bleached clouds broke
apart and extraordinary seabirds dive-bombed for discarded paella.

‘You want chair, Señor'’ A young man stood a few
feet from me.

I shrugged
dismissively, so he departed, Khaki shorts around his waist slack. His bronzed
back amazed me though - its rich pigmentation brought envy - as I would only
burn and redden, then peel like a frazzled tomato.

My watch bleeped and yellow spray announced the sun’s arrival.
But ‘it’ felt different. It was brighter, happier then in England. I could now
understand why so many ex-pats retired to these shores.

I dug my fingers
into the sand and my eyes examined its texture - it was a lush dark colour,
with a smell of the exotic. Was I over emphasizing Benidorm? Could I only see
the good points, because this place, for whatever its faults, had been the butt
of many a third-rate comedians’ jokes?

I upped and sought a drink. The Irish Bar on the 'front' enticed
me in. I rested on a chair and ‘ordered lemonade.’ The East End accent from the
serving waitress brought on a sigh. I wanted a Spanish Señorita for a
change. Then I observed Brits smoking cheap cigarettes and Spaniards discussing
business. Abruptly, two dark figures gave an insidious glance. They were
Moroccan immigrants and tried to pan me off with gold rings.

‘Sorry, I'm not buying!’ I grumbled.

Maybe Benidorm wasn’t a castaway's paradise after all?

In the evening I sipped my drink of Sangria and ambled
onto my balcony. The night air was alive with smells and my mood was jovial.
Mmm. A night on the town warrants attendance.

So, I entered that neon lit club off the strip with a bounce. Music from
Lady Ga Ga, and girls with ra-ra-skirts jived to the beats on the
dancefloor. I sat on a stool and watched with yearning eyes. Suddenly a pretty Señorita
approached me. She smiled, flicked her hair and we talked. I fired a joke about
sunburn and my reward was a ‘kiss’ on the cheek.

For me this ‘Spanish resort’ would always stay cemented with that
‘kiss.’